Chapter Text
Jungkook hated his life as a part of the royal family. Every bow, every title, every pair of eyes watching his every move—it all felt like a gilded cage. He wasn't a person anymore. He was just a prince.
But there he was in Rome—his last stop on a much-publicized goodwill tour of European capitals—at his country's embassy, at a ball made specifically in his honor.
The ballroom was a sea of faces: politicians, nobles, the world's major figures. For two and a half hours, Jungkook had stood there greeting them, one after another, shaking hands with people he didn't know and didn't care about, offering smiles that never reached his eyes.
And still, it wasn't over. He had to dance—a few obligatory turns with the wives of rulers whose names he'd already forgotten, all in the name of "diplomatic relations." He couldn't have cared less. But that was the price, wasn't it? The invisible tax of being a public figure.
When he'd come of age, he'd thought joining the family business meant serving his nation. Connecting with his people. Instead, it meant ten galas a week, pandering to old men with powdered faces, and watching his every move become a headline. The world expected him to be untouchable, pure, above the messy reality of being human. A drink with friends became "a royal scandal." A night out became "heir's wild escapade." Things so ordinary, so mundane for anyone else his age were twisted into something immoral, something shameful, simply because his last name carried a crown. He wasn't allowed to be young. He was only allowed to be a prince.
This was his life now. A gilded cage, and tonight, Rome was just another gilded bar.
-
He was so sick of it all that when he finally reached his bedchambers, all he could think about was how stupid everything was.
"How can all of this be such bullshit?!" Jungkook whispered, pressing his forehead against the cold window glass. Below, the city was alive. A street festival spilled across the piazza—ordinary people, laughing, dancing, spinning in circles to music he could barely hear but somehow felt in his chest. Strings of warm lights swayed above them. A woman tossed her head back in laughter. A couple kissed near a fountain. Everyone moved like they had all the time in the world, like they belonged to themselves and no one else. Jungkook's fingers curled against the sill. That was all he wanted. To be one of them. To be free.
Jimin, his equerry, appeared beside him, quiet as ever, and gently turned him away from the window. "Come on, my lord," he murmured, his hands working efficiently to undo the stiff formal wear. "Let's get you out of this torture costume."
He helped Jungkook shrug off the jacket, then the tie, exchanging them for the soft fabric of his nightgown with practiced ease. When Jungkook just stood there brooding, Jimin gave his shoulder a gentle push toward the bed.
"Sit."
Jungkook sat.
Once he was tucked in—Jimin even fluffed the pillow because he was nice like that—the equerry picked up the leather diary from the bedside table and settled into the chair nearby. He crossed one leg over the other, scanning the page with exaggerated seriousness.
"Now, my lord, if you don't mind..." He cleared his throat dramatically. "Here is tomorrow's schedule."
A gentle, teasing smile softened his face.
Jungkook whined, pulling the blanket over his head.
Jimin cleared his throat, scanning the diary with exaggerated professionalism. "Eight thirty, breakfast here with the Embassy staff; nine o'clock, we leave for the Anantara Concorso Roma where you'll be presented with a small car."
The prince sat on the edge of the bed, absently playing with his hair, his expression distant. "Thank you."
"Which you will not accept," Jimin added without looking up.
"No, thank you."
"Ten thirty-five, inspection of the Food and Agricultural Organization, which will present you with an olive tree."
"No, thank you."
"Which you will accept," Jimin said flatly, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Thank you."
"Ten fifty-five, the New Foundling Home for Orphans. You will preside over the laying of the cornerstone; same speech as last Monday."
Jungkook finally glanced up. "Trade relations?"
"Yes."
"For the orphans?" His brow furrowed.
Jimin finally lifted his gaze, deadpan. "No, no—the other one."
"'Youth and progress.'"
"Precisely." Jimin returned to the diary. "Eleven forty-five, back here to rest. No, that's wrong… eleven forty-five, conference here with the press."
Jungkook rolled his eyes dramatically. "'Sweetness and decency.'"
"One o'clock sharp, lunch with the Foreign Ministry. You will wear your white suit and carry a small bouquet of—"
"—very small pink roses," Jungkook finished dryly, reaching for the glass of water on his bedside table.
Jimin looked up at him, a slight frown creasing his forehead—not disapproval, just… concern. He kept reading. "Three-o-five, presentation of a plaque. Four-ten, review special guard of Police."
"No, thank you."
"Four forty-five, back here to change to your uniform to meet the international—"
"STOP!" Jungkook's voice cracked through the room like thunder.
He turned away sharply, his hair falling across his face, hiding his expression. "Please stop. Stop!
Jimin was on his feet instantly. He crossed the small distance and placed a warm, familiar hand on Jungkook's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Oh honey, I get it. I'll go get you something for your nerves," he said softly, giving a gentle squeeze before quietly slipping out of the room.
A few moments later he comes back with a cup of tea
"What is this?" Jungkook asked, studying the mug with mild suspicion.
Jimin settled on the edge of the bed beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. "Sleep and calm. It'll help you relax; maybe even make you feel a bit happier." He tilted his head with a small smile. " New drug—harmless, I checked. You know I'd never give you anything dangerous."
Jungkook took a tentative sip, then another. Halfway through the mug, he glanced over. "I don't feel any different."
"That's rather the point," Jimin said lightly. "It's subtle. Give it a few minutes." He reached over and gently took the mug from Jungkook's hands, setting it on the nightstand. "Now, lie back and try to rest. You've earned it after tonight's circus."
Jungkook snorted but complied, sinking deeper into the pillows.
Jimin stood, smoothing down his uniform, and paused at the door. He looked back with a warm, teasing smile. "Goodnight, sir. Try not to miss me too much."
Jungkook threw a pillow at him. Jimin dodged, laughing softly, and slipped out—closing the door with a quiet click.
Alone now, Jungkook let his gaze wander around the vast room—the ancient ornamentation curling across the ceiling like frozen whispers; the enormous, sculpted headboard looming behind him like a throne he never asked for. He lay back against the pillows, staring at nothing.
Then he remembered.
The festival. The music. The people dancing like they meant it.
He was out of bed in an instant, bare feet hitting the cold floor as he rushed to the window. Pressing his palms against the glass, he looked down at the scene below—bodies swaying together, lanterns swinging, laughter floating up like offerings to the night sky. The breeze slipped through the crack in the window, brushing his face before continuing its journey over the city, past the lit-up buildings dreaming in the distance.
He looked back at the door. Then at the window again.
A slow smile spread across his face.
He crossed the wardrobe in three quick strides and began rummaging through the clothes hung there—past the formal suits, the ceremonial robes, the stiff collars and polished buttons. His fingers found what they were looking for: a plain white blouse, simple pants. Ordinary clothes. Free clothes.
Later, dressed in his disguise, he paused at the dresser. His tie lay there, coiled like a black snake. He picked it up, hesitated for just a moment—then looped it around his neck, leaving it slightly loose, undone. Not quite a prince, not quite a commoner. Something in between
He crept to the door and peered out carefully. At the end of the hall, a guard sat slumped in his chair, stirring occasionally in that half-sleep of the perpetually bored and exhausted. Jungkook held his breath. The guard shifted, settled, and went still again.
Quiet as a shadow, Jungkook slipped back inside and moved to the side window. It opened easily—too easily, as if the night itself was inviting him out. He climbed onto the balcony, the cool stone rough under his bare feet. He walked along the edge, steady despite the drop below, until he reached the adjacent balcony.
He jumped.
The landing made a slight noise—a soft thud against the earth—but no one stirred. The guard slept on. The night held its secret.
And Jungkook ran.
He keeps running through the courtyard, not daring to look back. His footsteps echo against the stone as the shadow of a man stretches across the ground behind him, appearing exactly where he had just been. He doesn’t slow down. Only when he reaches the far end does he finally slip into cover, pressing his back against the wall. His chest heaves, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls as he tries to steady himself.
Carefully, he leans forward and peers around the corner.
A small supply truck is parked nearby. A man jumps out of the driver’s seat and disappears into a building without bothering to lock up. The engine keeps running.
Seizing the moment, he darts from his hiding place, moving quickly but silently. He reaches the truck in seconds, grips the edge, and pulls himself into the back with a quiet thud. He crouches low among the crates just as the driver returns.
Moments later, the doors slam shut. The truck lurches forward and rolls away, carrying him off through the city before anyone realizes he was ever there.
He turns slowly, wonder lighting up his face as he leans an elbow against a stack of worn wooden crates to get a better view. From the back of the truck, the city unfolds like a living painting — cafés spilling warm light onto the sidewalks; waiters weaving between crowded tables, tourists lifting their cameras to capture the breathtaking view. Children chase each other in careless laughter. Couples kiss like the world isn’t watching. Somewhere nearby, music drifts through the air, bright and careless, tangling with the scent of coffee and summer dust.
For a moment, Jungkook forgets everything else. He just watches.
The truck goes over cobblestoned streets, and the crates rattle violently beneath him. Bottles clink together in the dark, the mysterious drink Jimin had handed him earlier still warm in his stomach, heavy and sweet. The engine growls. The city blurs.
His body sways with the movement of the road.
He rests his cheek against one of the boxes, meaning only to steady himself. The wood is cool. The vibration of the truck becomes rhythmic, almost soothing. The music outside fades into a distant hum. His eyelids grow heavier… heavier…
And without realizing it, Jungkook slips into sleep.
—
He wakes up with a sharp inhale.
The truck has stopped.
For a split second, everything is silent — no engine, no rattling crates. Just the distant buzz of traffic and the red glow of a streetlight bleeding into the back of the truck.
The door swings open.
Before he can fully understand what’s happening, he hops down onto the pavement, slightly unsteady, shoes scraping against asphalt. The driver doesn’t look back. The truck screeches forward the moment the light turns green, disappearing into the flow of cars as if it had never been there at all.
He leans against a random bench, the weight settling into his bones. He closes his eyes, seeking refuge in the darkness—and it is in that emptiness that he finds oblivion. After that, only silence. And nothing.
Until tender hands lift him up, and he opens his eyes to a stranger's worried face.